( a muscle in her jaw tics, tenses. the point of her chin goes wobbly like a crumbling floorboard, trying to support the weight of emotions housed inside of her — all these uninvited thoughts that make the hard lines in expression collapse dramatically, a foundation giving way. it's always been like this, since keramzin — locking her outbursts away until it's too much, until she can't barricade it behind carefully built walls and guarded doors. until something vital inside of her seems to outwardly break, leaving nothing but a messy spill for everyone to see.
a thousand ugly contortions distort her face as she fights to keep it at bay, the way she always has. don't let anyone see you cry. don't show weakness, even when you feel it. especially when you feel it. if little orphan girls aren't allowed to show weakness, what excuse do future queens and ruinous saints have? it's the kind of anguished show of emotion she knows the darkling would weaponize, in her shoes. the kind of humanity nikolai would strategize to show for sympathy. for alina, it's just —
raw, pathetic, like viscera left on the floor for someone to step in. nothing she wants alia — wants anyone — to drag their feet through, tracking around evidence that there is something fundamentally broken inside of alina starkov. her face goes splotchy, the tip of her nose ruddy. her arms in alia's hold shake like her bones are coming apart, a seam splitting. she chokes on a wet lump in her throat, staring blankly ahead at the wall, like she's addressing unseen ghosts — not the warm cradle of girl knelt in front of her, offering supplication alina fears reaching for. )
I don't want to. ( it bleats out of her, small, barely audible, feeling no larger than a child in the middle of a tantrum, kicking their feet over a chore. she jerks an arm out of alia's grip to wipe viciously at her leaky eyes, moisture splashing hotly against the back of her hand as she blinks. she forces herself to meet alia's eyes, despite it — despite the blur in her vision, only making out a haloed shine of curls. ) I don't want to do this. I don't want to talk about any of it.
no subject
a thousand ugly contortions distort her face as she fights to keep it at bay, the way she always has. don't let anyone see you cry. don't show weakness, even when you feel it. especially when you feel it. if little orphan girls aren't allowed to show weakness, what excuse do future queens and ruinous saints have? it's the kind of anguished show of emotion she knows the darkling would weaponize, in her shoes. the kind of humanity nikolai would strategize to show for sympathy. for alina, it's just —
raw, pathetic, like viscera left on the floor for someone to step in. nothing she wants alia — wants anyone — to drag their feet through, tracking around evidence that there is something fundamentally broken inside of alina starkov. her face goes splotchy, the tip of her nose ruddy. her arms in alia's hold shake like her bones are coming apart, a seam splitting. she chokes on a wet lump in her throat, staring blankly ahead at the wall, like she's addressing unseen ghosts — not the warm cradle of girl knelt in front of her, offering supplication alina fears reaching for. )
I don't want to. ( it bleats out of her, small, barely audible, feeling no larger than a child in the middle of a tantrum, kicking their feet over a chore. she jerks an arm out of alia's grip to wipe viciously at her leaky eyes, moisture splashing hotly against the back of her hand as she blinks. she forces herself to meet alia's eyes, despite it — despite the blur in her vision, only making out a haloed shine of curls. ) I don't want to do this. I don't want to talk about any of it.